


There Are No Victors In War

by BabalooBlue



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabalooBlue/pseuds/BabalooBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘The war is over, Greg,’ said Blythe House in ‘Birthmarks’. But some battles still need to be fought. House and Wilson set out for home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silence

 

_“(…) when we are heavy with emotion, it can be excruciating to speak. We don’t want to let the words out, because then they will also belong to other people, and that is a danger we can’t risk.”_

\- Siri Hustvedt, The Sorrows of an American

 

* * *

 

**_1-Silence_ **

Wilson had paid for the window at the funeral home and then apologized profusely to Blythe House. He had tried to smooth things over as best as he could while House had been waiting in the car. He hadn't said goodbye to his mother.

House was quiet. He had left his cell phone on silent after the service. There was the occasional hum from a text message or a call, but he made no move to answer. It was unusual for him to ignore calls from his team when they had a case, unheard of even.

They had been on the road for several hours now and not a word out of him. House could sulk better than a five-year-old at times, but this was different.

With each mile they traveled, the silence had grown and by now it was threatening to take up all the remaining space in the car. Wilson felt he had to do something or he would suffocate.

"House, you can't blame your mother. Most people would agree that it was your responsibility to give a eulogy for your father."

House didn't reply. Wilson cast a look across. House sat stiffly, his silence folded around himself like a cloak.

"I'm only saying, House, it's not unusual. Many people go through –"

"Do not talk to me about responsibility!" House all but roared. In the tight confines of the car it was like an explosion, and Wilson reflexively ducked his head.

After a moment, House continued a little more calmly, "Don't talk to me about responsibility. He was my father. For all intents and purposes he was my father." He took a few deep breaths. "There's a certain responsibility that comes with that, wouldn't you say."

Wilson waited for more to follow, but nothing did. House turned to look out of the window. His hands were clasped on top of his cane. No, not clasped. They held on to his cane, the knuckles white.

"What do mean?"

House didn't reply. He reached across without looking and turned on the radio.

"What do you mean, House?"

Instead of a reply, Wilson heard the seal of the Vicodin bottle open. Wilson checked his own pocket. He had taken the pills off House before they started out on this trip. That man could have had a successful career as a pickpocket.

"House, you just took-"

House cut him off. "Don't go there. Just don't."

For once, Wilson heeded the warning in House's voice.

He listened to Bryan Adams sing about love and forgiveness. Normally House would have either turned to a different station or made scathing remarks about the quality of commercial radio. Today, he did neither.

Maybe he needed this sticky sweetness to drown out whatever darkness lurked beyond.

Wilson had no idea where that thought had come from. But it was there. And it was real.

This situation, the two of them cooped up together in such close quarters, reminded him of past road trips. But the atmosphere was all wrong this time.

"Wilson? What is the job of a parent?"

He wasn't sure where this was going, but he went along with it. Anything was better than silence.

"Um, not sure. Raise your child to be a good human being, make sure they're fed and loved, keep them safe from harm…"

"Exactly."

Wilson couldn't figure out what was going on with House. This wasn't grief. He knew grief. This was more and yet somehow less than that.

"House, whether you believe he was your father or not, grieving is normal."

"I'm not grieving. And I don't  _believe_  that he wasn't my father, I  _know_  he wasn't." House had made that perfectly clear earlier today.

"So why the sample then? That was a bit tasteless, in full view of everyone. Don't you think your mother noticed?"

"My mother notices nothing she doesn't want to notice."

And just like that, House shut down again. Wilson knew they had touched on something important here, something that hadn't been touched in a long time. Perhaps never. He wasn't sure what exactly it was. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to know.

They hadn't seen each other in months. Wilson had only taken on the job of getting House to his father's funeral because Cuddy had guilt-tripped him. She had played up the fact that House had given him the space he needed to grieve.  _But now he needs you, James. He is still your friend._  Wilson wanted to protest but couldn't get a word in edgeways. Before he knew it, Cuddy had told him when and where to pick up House.  _Don't worry, he'll probably sleep most of the way._  He hadn't even bothered to ask why.

House had seemed happy to see him, once he had woken up from whatever Cuddy had given him. Especially after he realized that Wilson wasn't doing this voluntarily. Wilson, on the other hand, wasn't sure how he felt about seeing House again. There had been a time, not all that long ago, when he had thought their friendship was a thing of the past. And yet, the teasing and pranking on the way to Lexington, while annoying, had also been kind of fun. It reminded him of better times. Times when the world was still in order and his girlfriend and House's Dad were still alive.

Sitting here in the car, looking at the man next to him, Wilson suddenly didn't know anymore why he hadn't wanted to see House.

Something had been bothering him for the last several hours, though. What had House said?  _If there were something to be done, I would have done it in the year he spent dying._ A whole year.

"House, why didn't you tell me your father was dying?

House broke his silence.

"No point. He took a year to die. It took my mother more than half that to tell me he was sick. At that point, even she couldn't ignore the facts any longer. Maybe she thought the cancer would go away. She likes to pretend things don't exist as long as she doesn't openly acknowledge them."

"You knew for that long that your father was dying? And you never went to see him?"

House didn't reply.

Five, maybe six months ago House had found out that his father was ill, probably dying. Amber had died five months ago. Five months and seventeen days ago.

Filled with dread, he still had to ask. "House, when exactly did you find out that your father was sick? When did your mother tell you?"

"Doesn't matter." House turned up the radio.

But it did. It mattered to Wilson. And the fact that House pretended it didn't spoke volumes.

One year. More than six months. Almost six months. Wilson did the math. And the result nearly took his breath away.

"You found out the night of the bus crash."

It wasn't a question. He didn't expect an answer because he didn't need one.

House had been in that bar to get drunk because he had just found out that his father, or the man supposedly his father, was terminally ill. House hadn't told Wilson because Wilson had been busy lately. Busy with Amber.

Wilson started to feel sick, so he pulled over at the next rest stop. He had been driving for too long anyway. Once they had stopped, he asked, "Who else did you call before you called our apartment?"

House didn't move. He kept staring out of the window, as if there was still scenery flying by.

"House!"

"Doesn't matter. Nobody picked up anyway."

Nobody had answered the call. Everyone had been busy or asleep. Calling Wilson was the last resort after the barkeeper had taken House's keys. His brain had been too pickled to call a cab. Or maybe he had run out of cash. He must have had a lot to drink. They had recorded House's blood alcohol concentration at the hospital that night, but Wilson couldn't remember it. He couldn't remember any stats except Amber's. They were etched into his memory forever. But House's? No, not House's.

House had learned he was going to lose the only father he knew, had gotten drunk, had been injured in a bus crash, had tried to save Wilson's girlfriend by putting his own health at risk, and Wilson couldn't even remember something simple as his blood alcohol level. Nor had he known that his best friend's father had been ill.

And House hadn't said a word.

Wilson didn't know what to say.

"I didn't know, House…"

House turned around for the first time in a while, but he didn't reply.

Wilson felt like screaming.

_How did you expect me to know? Friends are supposed to tell each other those things. How did you expect me to find out?_

House's eyes were asking him to figure it out.

Just like now, House had expected him to pay attention, just like House always paid attention to what was going on in Wilson's life. But Wilson had been too busy.

He wasn't busy now. There was nothing and nobody here but him and House.

Wilson turned off the radio.

"What happened, House?"

House's gaze reluctantly came up to meet Wilson's. "You know what happened. I killed your girlfriend."

Oh God, not this. The flat tone of his voice spoke volumes. Wilson couldn't handle this right now. In the last few months he had discovered that grief was unpredictable and by no means linear. It would come in random waves and swamp him until he could no longer breathe. He pushed down one of those waves now before he would choke on it. It took a moment until he was able to speak again.

"No, with your father. What happened?"

House flinched. Wilson hadn't been specific, but House knew what Wilson was asking. And yet he thought he could still get out of this.

Earlier he had told Wilson about the summer his father hadn't spoken to him. But Wilson knew this wasn't the whole picture. There were gaping holes, pieces missing.

"He got sick. He died. That's what happened."

Wilson let go of the steering wheel he hadn't realized he had been holding onto all this time. He didn't know what to do with his hands.

"You know that's not what I mean."

It hadn't seemed possible, but House's hands gripped his cane even harder. Wilson wished he had a cane he could cling to like House. He put his hands back on the steering wheel instead.

Wilson waited for House to speak. Without the A/C on, the air in the car felt stale, too hot. Wilson loosened his tie and opened his collar. He felt a little nauseated.

House sat there like a statue, silent, not moving except for his chest rising and falling. Wilson counted, even though he didn't need to. Too fast.

"House…?"

When Wilson touched his arm House pulled away as if he had been burned.

He didn't want to do this. He wasn't sure if he  _could_  do this. Nor if he should. But he had seen that look in House's eyes, the look that had asked him to work it out.

_I want you to know, but I don't want to tell you._

And he had worked it out. All the signs were there, now that he had finally cared to look.

He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. Did he really need to ask? What would it accomplish? He remembered something House had said once.  _We drag out her story. Tell each other that it'll help her heal. Feel real good about ourselves. But all we've done is make a girl cry._ He remembered House's patient, the rape victim who refused to speak to anyone but him. Why? Had House talked to her?

_But all we've done is make a girl cry_. House never cried. But he had never seen House like this. Shut down and at the same time asking – begging – Wilson to find the key.

"Did you talk to her?"

"Who?"

"Your patient a couple of years ago. The girl who only wanted you as her attending. The rape victim."

House shook his head almost imperceptibly and turned to look out of the window again.

"Eve."

Eve. Yes. Had she recognized something in House that made her connect? Something that made her want to talk to him, and only him? Something familiar?

Wilson stared at the back of House's head and noticed how his friend had lost more hair. When had that happened? And why hadn't he noticed?

Because he hadn't been there. He had left after he had asked his friend to put his life at risk to save his girlfriend. And as thank you he had kidnapped that same friend to drag him to his father's funeral. A funeral he didn't want to attend. A funeral, it appeared, he had good reason not to want to attend.

"Yes. Eve. Did you talk to her? She knew, didn't she? That's why she wanted nobody else but you on her case."

House slowly shook his head.

"No. Yes, I did. But not… not about…"

Not about everything. No, he wouldn't have. He had probably given her just enough so she would reciprocate and open up to him. House always so carefully guarded his privacy. At times it seemed like a complicated game he had invented. But it wasn't. Looking at his friend now, Wilson understood that it had never been a game, not to House.

He took a deep breath.

"Do you  _want_  to talk about it?"

House didn't move for a long time. Wilson swore he didn't even breathe. And then he slowly shook his head.

He felt ashamed at the relief this small movement made him feel.

_But all we've done is make a girl cry._

And all I've done is force my best friend to attend his supposed father's funeral – for no other reason than etiquette and my own righteousness.

Wilson nodded. "Okay."

He was in no state to continue the drive home, so he stopped at the next motel and booked them in for the night. Standing in the office, waiting for the girl to figure out which rooms were available, he looked out at the car.

In profile and against the low light House no longer looked his usual imposing self.

_He just looks sad._ The thought hit Wilson with force.

He felt his own grief bubble up, still as fresh now as it had been five months ago. At the time he hadn't wanted to see his friend. And his friend had stayed away. His friend who had inadvertently set in motion the events leading to Amber's death. His friend who had risked his life to try and save her. His friend who had given him the space he had thought he needed.

Wilson turned around to the girl still trying to figure out the booking system. "Actually, make that two adjoining rooms, please."


	2. Gravitational Collapse

_Be careful fighting someone else's demons – it may awaken your own. (Bryant McGill)_

 

* * *

**_2-Gravitational Collapse_ **

Wilson fell onto his bed. Too much bounce. But it would do.

He was exhausted. Before he could fall asleep, he checked his phone. No messages, not even from Cuddy. Not once had she checked to see how things were going. She had practically dumped House in his car and, once Wilson took over, her problem was solved. Out of sight, out of mind. He was the clean up man, Mr. Fix-It. The man who could be relied on to clean up after one of House's stunts.

Only this time it wasn't a stunt.

Cuddy had assumed that House's refusal to attend the funeral was just House being House, that this was one of his usual games. But from what little he knew now, it was clear this wasn't a game. Not to anyone with eyes, not to anyone who wanted to see.

It was just that Wilson wasn't sure whether he really wanted to see. He was incredibly tired, and the funeral service had made him miss Amber with an unexpected sharpness.

And he was hungry.

He hadn't eaten properly since this morning. House would be hungry too.

While he was waiting for his take-out at the diner across the road, he wondered what House was doing right now. He wouldn't be soaking in the tub since their rooms only had showers. Actually, now that he thought about it, he should have asked for a room with a tub. He should have because he knew that spending all day in the car would have jacked up House's pain considerably. And he had rationed House's Vicodin.

If there were a prize for the worst friend in times of need, Wilson was pretty sure he'd be in the running.

There was no answer to his knock on House's door. After a few tries he sent a text. No reply. Maybe his cell was still on mute. Wilson sighed and stumped off to his room to use the house phone to call House.

No answer.

If he was in the shower, he might not hear the phone. But how long could one man stay in the shower?

Wilson was getting worried. So worried that he eventually called reception to have someone come and unlock the door.

"My friend might have slipped in the bathroom."  _Or he might have done something stupid._  God knows stupid things had crossed his own mind more than once after Amber's death.

"Do you want me to come inside with you," asked the janitor after he had unlocked the door. His look was kind and not in the least curious. He must have seen it all in his line of business.

Wilson clutched the bag containing their dinner, now probably cold, and shifted it from one hand to the other.

"Um, no thank you. I'll be fine."

But would he be? Really? No matter what he found?

He waited until the man had left before he put his hand against the door to push it open. But he still hesitated. He told himself that he would be okay. He told himself that House was fine in there, probably asleep after taking another couple of Vicodin.

But what if he was wrong?

"House?"

The lights were low and the bed was empty. The Vicodin bottle was on the nightstand.

No sign of House.

Wilson set the bag with their food on a chair. House's clothes were scattered across the room. His sneakers, on the other hand, stood almost neatly side-by-side next to the bed.

House's cane was hooked over the handle of the bathroom door.

"House!"

The bathroom door flew open and House emerged in boxers and t-shirt, hair still wet and tousled. Reflexively, Wilson's eyes flew to the scar on House's thigh. He hadn't seen it in so long that he had almost forgotten what a deep gulley it was. Almost.

House shot him a defiant look, grabbed his cane and limped over to the bed.

"Jeez, can't a man shower in peace. What do you want, Wilson?"

"Um…" Wilson had suddenly forgotten why he had come. Seeing House brought relief because he hadn't done anything stupid but, at the same time, he recognized how tired House looked. The scar stood out a mile and yet he made none of his usual attempts to cover it up.

House grabbed his jeans but stopped short of putting them on. Instead he cast a questioning look at Wilson.

"I, um, thought you'd be hungry. I could eat a horse…" He went and grabbed the bag with food.

"I hope that's not what's in that bag. Although horsemeat isn't as disgusting as people make out, you know. It's actually okay if you prepare it right."

Wilson busied himself with the food, setting out the containers and digging around in the bag for plastic utensils – all to give House a few moments to put his pants back on without an audience.

"It's not horsemeat, but it's probably all cold by now," he said without much regret and sank down in a chair across from House who just buckled his jeans. He looked over the spread he had prepared at the end of the bed and suddenly didn't feel all that hungry anymore.

"Are we still in Kentucky?"

"No, we're almost half way, this is West Virginia." House really hadn't been paying much attention on the drive.

House shrugged. "Huh. Chances are it's still horsemeat."

Apparently House hadn't lost his appetite, though. He demolished his burger in no time at all and declared it 'pretty decent for horsemeat'.

"So, what's the story, why no booze in your care package," House asked and stole a couple of Wilson's fries.

"No booze at the diner. But they had pie," he pushed the apple pie across to House.

"Pie is no substitute for booze, completely different food group. Even you should know that." But he dug in anyway.

He was still chewing when someone knocked at the door. House apparently had been expecting this because he got up, limped across the room and opened the door. A few words were exchanged, and then money changed hands.

When House turned around he held up a small bottle of bourbon.

"Didn't think I'd have to share it. You should've put that bottle in your pocket instead of throwing it."

Wilson still felt awful about damaging the funeral home's window. It hadn't been his finest hour.

"House, I'm really sorry for messing up like that at your father's funeral. For ruining the day."

House stopped short and looked straight at him. Wilson felt awkward. Was House trying to determine if he was serious? He was. He did feel bad about losing his temper. Even though House had needled him.

"Huh. You  _are_  serious," House said after a moment. "You still don't get it. That funeral could not be ruined. My Mom will survive. At least she'll have a story to tell at her next  _kaffee klatsch_. She kind of expects it of me by now. And yet she insisted I come anyway."

Wilson scratched his head. "You don't feel bad about this?"

House poured them both a shot into tumblers from the bathroom and then lowered himself carefully back onto the bed. He took a sip.

"Wilson, I didn't even like the man. You were the one who dragged me here. I don't care about his funeral." He leaned back against the headboard.

That was a lie if ever Wilson had seen one. And House knew that he knew.

There was a man who didn't speak to his son for two months. And there was a son who flinched on physical contact and avoided it wherever possible. A man who was someone's father and yet wasn't. A son who buried his pain under fifteen layers of snark and hands full of Vicodin. The strange thing was that with every sip of bourbon he took, everything that had been just a vague feeling before became a little clearer. The fog slowly lifted. And by the time House filled their glasses for the third time, Wilson was filled with dread.

He didn't want to do this. But he owed it to House to stop ignoring something he should have seen a long time ago.

Wilson took a deep breath and then a leap.

"House…?"

"Hm?" House's eyes were closed, and he looked almost relaxed. The tension he had carried with him in the car had disappeared for the most part. There was still that almost perpetual frown on his face, but other than that, this was the House Wilson knew.

And he chickened out. "What would you have said if you hadn't worried about your mother? How would you have continued your speech?"

House's eyes flew open in surprise.

"What? You want to hold a wake now? Here? In a dingy hotel room?" He thought for a moment and then grinned. "Guess it's more appropriate than that oh so proper, let's pretend everything's perfectly fine funeral home. That was my mother's choice through and through."

Wilson shrugged. "Yeah, I guess you could call it a wake. With no mother or other folks to censor what needs to be said about the deceased."

House chuckled. "My kind of wake. Who's your wake for then? Can't be for my father, you barely knew the man."

Wilson hadn't considered this. He had hoped House would start talking, and all he would have to do was listen. He should have known better, though. There were no simple deals with House.

"Um…" He took a sip of bourbon to fortify himself. He couldn't think of anything, anyone. Didn't  _want_  to think of anyone. He felt a headache coming on and hoped it wasn't a migraine.

"Oh, if only we could think of someone you've lost recently… pity your life's so well in order, all your loved ones present and accounted for…" House looked towards the ceiling in a mock attempt at looking lost for an idea.

Something inside of him, something Wilson hadn't realized had been strained to breaking point for months now, snapped.

"No.  _No_. No, no! I'm not doing this, House!" He felt hot and cold at the same time. His glass dropped to the floor, and he stood, his hands flailing, trying to reign in something that was in danger of getting out of control. "No fucking way. No. You don't – you don't get to…"

"I don't get to what? Get to look at how I messed up your life by killing your girlfriend? See how precious she was? Or how she annoyed the hell out of you at times because she was always right, always knew better? Well, you don't get to pick the easy way out here, Wilson. There's no get out clause. You have no more right to an easy life than I do. Quid pro quo, Clarice."

House sat upright against the headboard, only seemingly calm. His eyes belied his posture, though. They were bright blue, a sure sign of anger and hurt, Wilson knew. He should have seen this coming. Oh, he had been so stupid.

Pain. There was so much pain. Something was twisting his guts into a knot. He needed to pace, wanted to kick something, throw something – but he had only done that earlier. As if there was a quota. Maybe there was. He stopped and looked at House who sat there stiffly on his bed, watching him. As if observing something under a microscope. As if Wilson were nothing but an experiment in a petri dish. How could he be so fucking detached?

All that grief, all the sadness he had felt for those last months, it all seemed to concentrate in one hot ball in his stomach now, and it fed on his anger, and it was about to explode and blow him to pieces. Into a million tiny little pieces that would litter the carpet of this mediocre, boring motel. And in the morning a maid would come and vacuum, and he would be sucked up into the dark with so many other dirt particles.

He made one last futile attempt to contain that hot ball of fury, this growing supernova which threatened to destroy him. He watched his hands flutter about ineffectually, searching for something to grasp, some hold, something to stuff down on top of that explosion about to happen. And he knew it was too late.

"You don't get to talk about her," someone hissed at House. It was coming from somewhere inside, somewhere he couldn't reach, somewhere he couldn't control. This wasn't him. " _You_  do not get to just – just sit there and judge her, not – not even  _think_  about her that way. You took her away from me… you, you… and your needs.  _YOU TOOK HER AWAY FROM ME!_ "

Someone roared. He felt his grip on reality, on his sanity slipping. Things went dark.

He heard someone sobbing.

When Wilson's vision finally cleared, he found himself collapsed in the chair in the corner, House still sitting on the bed. He hadn't moved. His face was tight and his eyes sparkled – with sympathy and pain, Wilson realized with surprise. He was silent.

Wilson wondered how much time had passed. He willed himself to let go of the armrest he had been clinging to. He lifted his hand to check his watch. Everything hurt. His hands hurt and his shoulders hurt.

It was after midnight. He remembered being at the diner around 10pm. He was missing at least an hour. Oh God.

The sobbing continued.

It took him a long time to realize that he was the one making those horrible noises. And he didn't know how to stop. He listened to his own wailing as he watched House slowly – painfully, he recognized that much - climb to his feet and disappear into the bathroom.

Seconds or hours later, Wilson couldn't tell, House held a washcloth in front of him. Wilson took it silently and covered his face with it.

For all those months after Amber's death he had been going through the motions. During all those therapy sessions, he had looked at his grief, tried to analyze it, tried to explain it. He had cried about Amber, and he had missed her. But he had never touched that hot core inside, the part of him that was hurting so badly.

And all that time he had somehow known that this crack was inevitable, that it was coming. And it came now, here, in a random motel somewhere in West Virginia with House – whose father had just died and who should be the one crying and he should be the one giving comfort. Instead he went to pieces here.

That hot ball inside him had exploded, but it hadn't destroyed him. He wasn't scattered in a million pieces but sat right here, in one piece, with a cool wet cloth soaking up the heat from his tears.

He had a splitting headache.

The table was on its side and some of the food containers littered the floor. That something inside him hadn't destroyed him, but it looked like it had wreaked havoc all right. He cast a glance at the mirror and the windows. All still intact. There was a little relief in that.

When he turned to look at the window, he caught House's eye. He was back on the bed with a slightly amused look on his face. His hands were rubbing his thigh and for one horrible second Wilson worried that he hadn't only wreaked havoc on inanimate objects.

"Welcome back, Dr. Banner. Almost back to normal, I see." Hidden behind House's obvious amusement was something else, though, something Wilson couldn't quite place. Surprise. Wariness. It took him a moment to catch up with House's reference.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" House continued. And then, quietly, "you're right to blame me. Without me Amber would still be alive."

Wilson swallowed on the lump in his throat. "But without you I would never have met her either."

House looked surprised. But then he nodded and poured them the last from the bottle. It was barely a finger in each glass.

"He taught me right and wrong, you know. Even if his right and wrong sometimes were very different from mine. You pay for doing wrong. Someone always pays." House paused and took a sip from his glass. "You were right to ask me to do the DBS."

Wilson heard all that House didn't say.  _You were right to demand it from me because I did wrong. She paid for my mistake; this was the only way I could try to fix things._ He heard it and finally saw what had gone on that day. What he had demanded of House. And why House had done as he had asked.

"No, House. No. I was wrong." He only realized the truth of what he was saying the moment the words left his mouth. "I was wrong to demand this of you. Nobody should ask another person to risk their life. Especially not their best friend. I'm sorry."

"Are you trying to tell me that one life is as important as another? Because that's bullshit and you know it."

Wilson saw the defiance in House's eyes. House knew he was right, and dared Wilson to disagree with him. And he did.

"No, I'm not saying that. Or maybe I am. What I'm really trying to say is that the life of one loved one who is currently in danger will always appear more valuable and important than the life of another. It has to be that way, or nobody would ever attempt to save anyone."

House sat still for a long time.

"So you want me to believe that both our lives were equally important to you," he finally said and then looked straight at Wilson. "If both of us were here right now, perfectly healthy, and some madman forced you to choose who of us he'd shoot in the next five minutes, who would you pick?"

Wilson thought for no longer than a second. He knew the answer was important, but it was also easy.

"I'd choose myself. Because I can't go through grieving like this again. Ever."

"That wasn't really one of the options, but nicely played, very nicely played. Of course you could argue that this decision would leave both me and Amber bereaved and, potentially, suffering. At least in my case. Probably not in hers."

Wilson opened his mouth to complain, but then he chuckled. House was back to kidding and poking. This was good and no reason to feel offended.

"I'm glad to hear you'd be suffering. Because you'd deserve it just for coming up with this scenario in the first place."

House snorted and seemed about to reply something, but then winced and started rubbing his thigh vigorously. Apparently the shower hadn't helped much. Or maybe the nature of their conversation was pushing up his pain levels.

"If someone hadn't been rationing my pain meds…" he muttered. "Apropos of suffering... time to break out a fresh Vicodin bottle, Dr. Banner."

Wilson's blood ran cold. There had to be something in House's backpack. He looked around to locate it and then realized that he hadn't seen it all day. He thought back to this morning when Cuddy and an orderly had brought House to his car. No backpack. Why hadn't Cuddy thought to bring it? And why hadn't he?

House picked up on Wilson's confusion and increasing desperation. "Wilson…" his voice was low and threatening, "don't fuck with me. This isn't the time. You must've remembered to pack some pain meds when you planned this outing. You were taking your patient on an overnight trip."

"But… I… I haven't prescribed for you in months…" he stuttered. "And, also… Cuddy was… she phoned. She never said… House!"

House's face turned to stone.


	3. Absolution

_What makes night within us may leave stars. (Victor Hugo)_

 

* * *

**_3-Absolution_ **

House just stared at him.

Wilson sat down heavily, realization sinking in. They were out of state, he couldn't prescribe for House. Besides, even if he could, he didn't bring his prescription pad. The small orange bottle on House's nightstand – empty as he knew now - seemed to glow. They were out of Vicodin. They were far from home, and they were out. And it was his fault. He had taken House from Cuddy, like some dead weight. Bring him to the funeral and back. Like a truck driver ferrying cargo somewhere. They probably didn't care what they were carrying. Neither did he, apparently.

Finally, Wilson became aware of House fidgeting on the bed and looked up. He had to do something, say something.

"House…" He drew a blank. There was nothing he could say that would help. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't gonna cut it, you know. Last I heard sorry wasn't an approved treatment for muscle and nerve pain."

"We could… there's always the ER. There has to be a hospital around here…" he offered tentatively.

House laughed. It sounded more like a bark than a laugh.

"I'm not letting some idiot resident on two hours of sleep and a shitload of uppers poke around my leg for hours, hemming and hawing, just to determine that I'm a drug seeker. No. Not a chance."

Wilson had a brainwave. "I have some Motrin in the car. For emergencies. I… I know it's not much, but it could at least take the edge off."

House huffed. "So, what are you waiting for? I think this qualifies as an emergency."

Wilson rushed out to the car.

"Was this stashed right next to the backup flashlight and the emergency rations of lembas bread? Did you check the use by date?" House swallowed what looked like a handful of pills, put the bottle on the nightstand and leaned back.

Wilson knew what House was doing. He needed a distraction until the pills kicked in. So he took the bait. "Yes, they're still good. I check them once a month. You know, just in case I get a migraine while I'm driving."

House closed his eyes, the lines on his face betraying his seemingly relaxed pose.

"I guess I'm lucky you're such a good Boy Scout then." He continued after a few deep breaths, "So what genius cooked up this hare-brained plan? Was it Cuddy or did you help?"

Wilson would rather not answer this question. But he had no choice, and House wasn't going to go easy on him now. If anything, House in pain was even more scathing and persistent. "Cuddy just said… I don't know, your mother… she kept calling because- because you wouldn't answer."

"My Mom has a knack for that. She gets on people's nerves, very politely and nicely, until they give her what she wants. The only one it didn't work on was my father. Even she hated him."

Wilson waited for more information, but nothing came. A moment later House struggled up off the bed, clearly still in pain. Wilson was about to help, but years of experience told him what kind of reaction that would elicit. So he stayed put and watched House slowly pace the room. How many times had he witnessed this over the years? Too many, Wilson concluded.

For the next hour or so Wilson observed House walk from the door to the TV and back, pausing every now and then to massage his leg for a moment, getting slower and slower and more unsteady, until, finally, he stopped altogether. It didn't look like Wilson's pills had helped much. Stooped over his cane, House had his back turned to Wilson at that point and took some deep breaths, as if to fortify himself.

"You know I wouldn't ask if I knew another way…" he finally said.

Wilson almost sprang to attention. He was glad to be asked to do something; he didn't care what it was. Anything to stop the misery he saw playing out in front of his eyes.

"I'll have to sit in the shower for a bit. A hot bath would be better, but this should work at least for a while," House hesitated for a second, then continued, "I'm not sure I'll be able to get back up afterwards…."

"Sure, no problem, I'll give you a hand," Wilson cut in.

House turned, eyes blazing. "No! I'm not that decrepit yet. Just stick around. Don't go back to your room. That's all."

And with no further look at Wilson, he limped off into the bathroom.

Wilson still wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to be doing. He finally decided that he was no good standing there helplessly in the middle of the room and moved to the bathroom door that House had left a little ajar.

On the other side of the door, he could hear House moving about slowly. Then came the sound of clothes dropping to the floor, interspersed with grunts and sighs. Finally, he heard the shower turn on and the cane hit the tiles.

The shower curtain was dragged across. More grunting and then, a thud, followed by a muffled sigh.

Wilson hoped those were good signs. "House? You okay in there? Shout if you need me."

There was no reply. The water was still running.

If House had hurt himself, he would need him to come in. If he was fine and in the shower, he probably wouldn't notice him coming in, Wilson reasoned.

So he pushed the door open.

The tiny bathroom looked identical to his own next door, and it was already filling up with steam. House's clothes were in a heap on the floor, and his cane had been dropped just outside the shower.

"Make yourself comfortable while you're snooping," House called from behind the shower curtain.

"Doors opening create a draft, you know, and motel shower curtains are flimsy. Surprised they're not see-through actually," said House while Wilson was still wondering how on earth he could have heard him come in over the noise from the shower.

Wilson sighed. "Excuse me for caring. I'll leave if you want."

A beat.

"No. Stay. I'm sure a steam room session is good for your sinuses or something."

Wilson smiled to himself, pushed the poison green bath mat against the wall and sat down on it.

House hadn't been that far off actually – the shower curtain wasn't see through but Wilson could still just about make out a shape behind it. Every now and then that shape moved a little behind the curtain.

"You know, if you want to be alone for a while…" Wilson said with a grin after listening to what sounded like House massaging his leg but could well have been something else.

Nothing except the sound of the water hitting the tiles. Then House snorted.

"Ha. Wish I had the energy. But weren't you offering to help earlier…?"

Wilson laughed. "No thanks. Not quite what I had in mind."

They sat silently for a while. Wilson removed his tie and shirt; it was getting hot in there.

When he didn't hear or see any movement from inside the shower for a while, he had to check. "You okay in there?"

There was nothing for a moment, and then House said, as if he hadn't heard Wilson at all, "You know what he would say now? He'd tell me to stop whining and suck it up."

Wilson felt a deep pang of sadness for a small boy who had once tried to hold back his tears following some little accident or other. There was nothing he could say to this, but House didn't expect a reply.

"He never took his uniform off at home," he continued, "figuratively speaking. He did change when he got home. But he wore the attitude, never took it off."

Wilson had only met John House a few times. House was right. The man wore an invisible uniform. He was always polite, affable even, during their short meetings. But it had seemed a little rehearsed; as if he was following a script because he wasn't sure of his footing.

"Guess he only felt comfortable when he was working, when he could put that uniform back on," Wilson mused. "Socializing isn't everyone's thing."

"Yeah, seems that's not genetic then," House huffed. "Doesn't mean you have to treat your family like your subordinates."

Oh no.

"That wasn't a dig, House," Wilson was quick to interject. "Just saying that it's quite common."

"Yeah, yeah, got it."

House sounded distracted. Wilson saw him change position behind the shower curtain. By now his back must be hurting and his legs cramping. The shower stall was no place for a man of House's height. Even Wilson's own backside was sore from sitting on the tiles. He could only guess how House must be feeling.

He hadn't thought it through properly before it was out. "House, I am not going to tell you to suck it up. Saying you're in pain is stating the truth and not complaining. It doesn't make you a whiner."

Behind the curtain, all movement stopped. The milky white plastic was stuck to House's shin which seemed frozen mid-movement. Even discounting the noise from the shower, Wilson wasn't sure if he could have heard House breathing at that point. Because he wasn't sure if he actually was.

"Did you just give me permission to howl and cry?" House's voice was tight.

Wilson took a moment to make sure he didn't mess this up now. "If that's what you need, then yes."

House laughed once, but Wilson wasn't sure if there wasn't something else underneath the amusement, something he couldn't quite hear through the noise of the shower.

"Go ahead. I can stand outside, so motel staff can see right away I'm not torturing you. Right after they break down the door," Wilson suggested, trying to add some levity to the situation.

House turned off the shower. "Not right now, you can't. Right now you need to throw me a towel in here."

Wilson did as he was told and awaited further instructions.

It took a while and quite a lot of movement behind the shower curtain, before House spoke up again. "I need a hand… don't worry, I'm decent. More or less."

He was indeed. When Wilson drew the curtain aside, House was still on the floor of the shower, the towel wrapped somewhat haphazardly around his waist. It was clear that he had tried to push himself up by stemming his good leg against the wall. But with no bar or anything to hold on to, his efforts had been in vain.

House held out his hand and Wilson pulled him up. He was about to take House's arm to help him step over the rim of the shower, when House slapped his hand away.

"Said I need a hand, not an escort."

Wilson didn't reply but passed House his cane instead and then left the bathroom to wait outside.

After a while he heard House lumber up to the door but then stop before opening it fully. Not sure what was happening, he finally guessed House was collecting himself before facing Wilson again.

To give him a little more privacy, Wilson busied himself by smoothing out the covers on House's bed.

"Thought you'd want to get into bed after that shower," he said to the pillows once he heard House come out from the bathroom.

He heard House shake a few more pills out of the Motrin bottle on the table and bit back a comment. There was no other option. He had seen to that himself. He sighed.

"I'm not an invalid," House growled as Wilson held back the covers for him. He flopped down on the bed and groaned. "Shit. No, I am."

Wilson didn't even dare attempt to help House into bed after House shot him one look and said, "You'd make a perfect nurse, Wilson. Just not sure you've got the legs for one of those skimpy outfits."

Instead he settled down in the easy chair by the TV. In the semi-darkness of the room he listened to House trying to get comfortable in bed.

"You gonna sit there all night?" House eventually asked.

"Got nothing better to do. I might as well hang out here."

"Idiot."

But House made no further attempt to kick him out.

After a while it became clear House couldn't get to sleep.

"Did the shower not help at all?" Wilson finally dared to ask.

House huffed. "Yeah, it did. Just not enough." And a moment later, "He would probably see this as rightful punishment."

There was a lot of pain in those words and Wilson knew it wasn't just the acute physical pain. How could this much pain ever be justified in any way, he wondered. And then he understood what House was referring to. There was only one thing for which he thought he deserved punishment. It was why he had consented to the DBS.

He fought the sadness pooling in his stomach. He pictured Amber again, the way she looked at him before he had turned off the machines that had kept her alive. And then he saw House in the ICU. So much pain in those eyes. And he, Wilson, had felt nothing looking at the man who used to be his friend. He had been numb through and through. Or that was what he used to think. He began to wonder if that hadn't been an excuse like so many others.

"You don't deserve punishment, House," he finally whispered. House stirred, but there was no reply. "Yes, I blamed you. It's why I left. Why I didn't want to see you anymore. I  _know_  you're not to blame. I did blame you because you were there; you were available. I needed to blame someone because I needed to make sense of it all. I was hurting so much. But you didn't kill Amber. The truck driver who drove the truck into the bus didn't even kill her. Maybe the adamantine killed her. Or the flu. She made the decision to step on that bus. You didn't force her. You didn't make her take the flu pills. You didn't even ask her to come pick you up. Maybe I killed her. After all, you wanted  _me_  to pick you up."

He listened to the darkness and finally heard House exhale slowly. Wilson felt a weight disappear from his shoulders. The heaviness in his gut began to ease.

So he took a breath and said, a little more certain and forceful this time, "House, you're not to blame."


	4. Weathered (Epilogue)

_"_ _(…)_ _The way surviving hard winters makes a tree grow stronger, the growth rings inside it tighter."_

_-Haruki Murakami, Yesterday_

* * *

**4-Weathered (Epilogue)**

It had been a short night. Neither of them had slept much. Wilson suspected that both of them had spent most of the night trying not to disturb the other one. This was not how they usually acted around each other.

They finally stopped pretending just before 5 am. The sooner they left, the sooner they would be home, so they picked up coffee and muffins at the diner and went on their way.

House shifted around in his seat, obviously in pain. Every hour or so, Wilson would stop, just to give him the chance to stretch a little.

"Your bladder must've shrunk to the size of a pea in the last five months," House complained when they stopped for the second time.

"Yeah, I should probably get that checked out next week. Maybe I caught an infection or something," Wilson said and walked off in the direction of the restrooms.

A little down the way he turned and watched House lever himself out of the car. Even from this distance it was obvious that he was in pain just standing up straight. Wilson decided to make this the fastest pretend restroom break ever. The sooner he got House home, the better.

Despite the lack of sleep the mood was a little lighter on the way back, which was a relief. Wilson envisioned a big tangle of guilt and grief, both his and House's. When they had started out, he had been wound tight as a spring, ready to uncoil. They were still a long way away from their usual state, but things had loosened up a bit on this trip.

They made it to Princeton in what was probably record time.

Wilson got out and walked very slowly around the car to give House enough time to get out by himself. When he arrived on the other side, House leaned against the car with his back turned to Wilson.

He resisted the urge to support House and simply asked, "Are you going to be okay on your own?"

House nodded. He took a step towards the house but then stopped as if he had just remembered something.

"Wilson."

He could see House's face in profile. Except for the tightness, which he put down to the pain, his expression was unreadable.

"Yeah?"

House continued to stare at the ground between his feet.

"My dad's dead."

Wilson took a deep breath and this time didn't resist the urge to put a hand on House's shoulder. "Yeah. My sympathies."

House didn't shrug off Wilson's hand; he just stood there for a moment before he nodded once.

Wilson watched House's back as he slowly walked the few steps to his front door. Even though his limp was more pronounced than normal, his back was as straight as an arrow.


End file.
